


A Thread of Green

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Briarwoods are gone and there's fresh hope for Whitestone. But Percy's having a harder time holding onto hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thread of Green

**Author's Note:**

> _Critical Role_ characters do not belong to me and I am making no money off this work of fan fiction.
> 
> Betaed by HG, with thanks. TW for mild gore at the beginning.
> 
> * * *

_Mentre che la speranza ha fior del verde._  
– Dante Alighieri, La Divina Commedia, Purgatorio, III

*

Sleep has always come hard for Percy, even in the years he doesn’t quite remember, and this night is like any other: fretful, fitful, and full of dreams.

He is clawing at his face, fingers hooked like a bird’s talons, feeling his nails puncture through skin and bone, tearing away gobbets of flesh that spatter around him. The mask is inside him and won’t come out. If he digs enough he might find it. One finger scrapes an eyeball out, popping it wetly and painlessly. None of this hurts. He rakes his nails down his cheeks, feeling them scrape on the bone beneath. He can see the damage he’s doing, peering into a mirror, but still the mask won’t come out.

“Percival, darling, take off the mask,” he hears Vex say.

 _I’m trying._ The words exist only at the back of his throat, choked back by darkness.

Half-blinded, his face in tatters, he feels the beak of the mask and pulls it forward. If only he can get it out, he can take it off once and for all. It slides out of him; he feels more of his flesh sloughing off, like a snake’s skin dropping away.

He pulls it out, settles it on his disfigured features, and feels it shift and contour to them, to the way his face is when it’s undamaged. It becomes nothing more than leather and metal, carefully crafted. Percy sighs with relief and removes it properly, expecting to see his own face in the mirror, pale and wan, but _his_.

The mask lifts and nothing but smoke looks back at him.

*

None of the others are awake, all exhausted from their long battle against the evil of Whitestone. Evil that _he_ brought them to, his mind helpfully reminds him. Grog is snoring loud enough to rattle the rafters. Vax and Vex are one indistinguishable dark lump in a corner. They could be sleeping in the fine beds of Whitestone Castle, if only he had the nerve to clear it out entirely, but instead they’re in the taproom of a tavern. Scanlan is in fact asleep _on_ the bar, one leg dangling over the edge, hugging his flute. They’re all just dropped where exhaustion left them.

All but one. There’s no auburn hair peeking out from any of the bedrolls.

Percy pulls his boots on and goes outside.

Keyleth sits with her back against the Sun Tree, looking up into its branches. The bodies have all been cut down; the only thing moving in the light breeze is the tiny new green growth on the long thin branches. Up above the branches, the sky is star-pricked and endless. Despite all he knows, all he _believes_ , of science and astronomy, Percy finds it easy to imagine that there could be some deity—or deities—up there looking back.

“May I join you?”

Keyleth extends her arm, offering him a fold of her cloak. Percy goes, settling against her side, feeling the warmth of her skin—doubtless some piece of druidic magic, because the night breeze is cold. She smells of flowers. Not magic, that; she always smells like flowers.

“Long day,” she says.

“You don’t say.” Percy looks around at the square, at the tables hastily brought out of houses and shops, the remnants of their feast of success strewn about on plates. A softly glowing lantern on one table illuminates a linen tablecloth that must be someone’s best, it looks so fine. “I can’t believe we did it.”

“We did _most_ of it,” Keyleth corrects. “There’s still that black orb to worry about.”

“Believe me, I’m worrying about it.” Where they are sitting, it’s probably directly below them. “Even if the ritual failed, _something_ happened down there.”

“You could blow it all up,” Keyleth says, but the way that she looks at him and then up at the tree sheltering them, he knows she doesn’t mean it.

“Somehow I don’t think that would be enough. If you couldn’t bring the earth down on it, what else might not work against it?”

Her chin goes up, her profile proud. “We’ll find the solution, whatever it is.”

He is so tired, and she is so _alive_ , young and awake and wise. “If anyone can find it, it’s you.”

Keyleth’s arm around him tenses. “Percy, don’t tell me _you’re_ in love with me too. I’m still processing the last time someone said that to me.”

Percy laughs wearily. “I love you very much, Keyleth, but not like that.”

She relaxes against him. “I love you too, Percy.”

He’s not quite as comfortable as she is with falling asleep sitting against a tree—although it’s not the most awkward position in which he’s ever fallen asleep—but as her breathing eases into the slow rhythm of sleep, Percy finds himself descending into sleep himself, sliding down to rest his head on her shoulder.

This time there are no dreams.


End file.
